Dull bronze war drums thudded in the midnight darkness, echoing off the jagged limestone walls of the eastern gorge.
Two thousand armored ducal pikemen advanced in a tight, bristling wedge along the riverbed.
Their heavy iron boots sloshed through the icy shallows, iron pauldrons clattering in rhythmic cadence.
At the head of the column rode three Golden Core Mid captains mounted upon armored mountain drakes, their curved sabers drawn and gleaming under the crescent moon.
“Advance in close formation!” the lead captain barked in a harsh whisper. “No battle cries! General Vorn’s orders are clear! Draw their defensive Qi and retreat on the third trumpet!”
Beside him, a junior lieutenant adjusted his iron visor, his eyes nervously scanning the dark, towering crags above.
“Captain, is it true?” the lieutenant whispered, his knuckles white against his saber hilt. “The rumors from the Sky-Bridge? They say Master Ash’s boy decapitated Captain Varo and shattered Morvane’s fifty-year broadsword with a five-stone practice blade.”
“Exaggerations of terrified merchants,” the captain sneered, though his own jaw was clenched tight with nervous tension. “No human cultivator reaches Golden Core Peak in sixty seconds without burning his lifespan.”
